


Here Comes The Sun

by theheartchoice



Category: Dan in Real Life (2007), Supernatural
Genre: Accidental Cuddling, Accidental Voyeurism, Aid Worker Castiel, Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Fusion, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Beefcake Castiel (Supernatural), Civilian Sailor Benny Lafitte, Complicated Relationships, Conflict Resolution, Conflicted Castiel (Supernatural), Cruise Crewman Benny Lafitte, Domestic Fluff, Dramedy, Emotional Baggage, Endgame Castiel/Dean Winchester, Eventual Smut, Falling In Love, Family Bonding, Family Dynamics, Family Fluff, Flirting, Fluff and Light Angst, Friendship, Grumpy Dean Winchester, Happy Ending, Huddling For Warmth, Inappropriate Erections, Jealous Dean Winchester, Light Angst, Love Triangles, M/M, Masturbation, Mechanic Dean Winchester, Meet the Family, Meet-Cute, Minor Bela Talbot/Dean Winchester, Miscommunication, Misunderstandings, Musician Dean Winchester, Mutual Pining, Openly Bisexual Dean Winchester, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Other: See Story Notes, POV Alternating, Pansexual Castiel (Supernatural), Past Lisa Braeden/Dean Winchester, Queer Characters, Single Parent Dean Winchester, Slow Burn, Songwriter Dean Winchester, Strangers to Lovers, Top Castiel/Bottom Dean Winchester, Touch-Starved Dean Winchester, Widowed Dean Winchester, Yoga Instructor Castiel (Supernatural), end of summer
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-12
Packaged: 2021-03-03 02:40:03
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 11,401
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24437572
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/theheartchoice/pseuds/theheartchoice
Summary: Dean and Benny have known each other since high school. They’re family, so when Dean hears that Benny has fallen in love he plans to make sure whoever it is really deserves him.What Dean doesn’t plan on is falling for the same guy.Navigating his best friend's boyfriend during two weeks of family time seemed a lot less complicated before he met Cas.Inspired by the filmDan In Real Life.
Relationships: Benny Lafitte & Dean Winchester, Castiel/Benny Lafitte, Castiel/Dean Winchester, Minor or Background Relationship(s)
Comments: 39
Kudos: 48





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This fic contains Explicit Sexual Content which will be noted at the start of each relevant chapter (Who and What). Benny/Cas is the other main pairing but Dean/Cas is endgame and their dynamic is the focus. Lisa is Dean's dead wife and is mentioned sporadically. There are a few background pairings and many familiar faces from canon (there are no OCs in this fic). 
> 
> A few notes about the characters: Mildred Baker is Dean's Great Aunt (because I love her) but everyone calls her Gran. For the purpose of this fic she's Deanna Campbell's sister (Deanna and Samuel Campbell died before Dean was born. Mary and John are also deceased. _Sorry for dumping all these ghosts in your lap!_ ). Audrey is my replacement for Ben Braeden as Dean and Lisa's kid, because 4x08 is one of my favourite eps (Audrey was adorable) and I wanted Dean to have a daughter not a son * _hand-wavey fic magic_ *. 
> 
> This is a self-indulgent wip that has been sitting in my drafts for a while. The broader plot is outlined but I'll be writing this bit by bit and going with the flow. It's generally pretty light-hearted with lots of domestic fluffiness and humorous happenings. There's also a healthy dose of mutual pining since this was formerly my _DeanCasPinefest_ fic (I discovered I don't do well with schedules and had to drop out). This is my first Destiel long fic so I'm excited and nervous. Here we go... 
> 
> ( _You don't need to watch the movie to understand this fic, but if you have seen it you may smile at a few familiar scenes_ ) 

Spaceship pancakes made with edible glitter from a rainbow batter. That should be enough to wrangle a smile on the face of anyone suffering from the morning grumps, even before their first cup of coffee. And life can have a pretty cruel sense of humour, like when your coffee-maker sputters and teases you with three measly drops before the light blinks out followed by that telltale _pop!_ (otherwise known as the death rattle of the percolator) and you need a little help finding joy before 8am. 

_Doesn't hurt to have a backup smile,_ his mom used to say. _Life tends to remind you not to pour all your hopes into one cup of coffee, hon._ Wise words, for sure, especially coming from a fellow caffeine addict. But sometimes life shoves that reminder right in your face on days you’d really rather not deal with without a little caffeinated help - artful pancakes or no. 

On this gloomy Wednesday morning, the joy which thematic food usually rouses from Dean's weary soul just ain’t cuttin' it. Coffee would help. A little sunshine wouldn’t go amiss. But it’s all these crappy things converging to make an inherently crappy day even crappier with a less than ideal start. 

He kinda wishes he could just skip the whole day; wake up tomorrow morning rested and relaxed, ready to make the eleven hour drive up to Grandma Mildred’s place, uncaring about the weather and with a thermos full of dark-roast a warm presence at his thigh. 

No such luck. And past experience has taught him he's bound to wake up feeling just as worn out as he is right now, no matter how many hours of sack-time he manages to score with his beloved memory foam. Emotional exhaustion, Sam calls it. 

But it ain't all bad. The thing about food bringing joy is that it works for more than just the maker. Take Dean’s six year old munchkin, Audrey: she has the remarkable habit of turning every mealtime into an adventure - many of which tend to feel like someone spiked his coffee with the brown acid, but who needs drugs when you've got kids? 

And if his little girl is happy then Dean can’t _not_ be happy. She always manages to find his backup smile, especially on caffeine-less days or just low days in general. It's that special kind of joy only your kid can spark in you. Most of the time they don't do it on purpose, it's just a fortunate side effect of their own enjoyment. 

The fall rains may be edging in on the end of summer a little too soon for Dean's liking, but he doesn’t mind it so much since he’s got a living embodiment of sunshine right here. One who is currently awaiting her pancake alien armada to help fight off the volcano-fried Baconista dragons of Björn, who are at this very moment keeping a close watch over the cheesy-scramble mountains of Eggtopia.

With Audrey, food is a tasty medium with which she brings her imagination to life. With others, it’s as simple as good food bringing people together in good company. But he's not gonna lie: there may be a selfish element to it all as well, because being in the company of those he helps make happy in-turn makes _him_ happy. Their smiles reflect back at him, _into_ him. He basks in their joy like a freakin’ gecko in a suntrap. 

Two bouncing glitter antennae catch his eye as he lands a stack of reinforcements on the counter space. "The fleet is yours, Ranger Rio!" He gives a spatula-salute, turning the plate with a flourish so the vessels are right-side-up to their Commander.

"Just in time, Captain—the winged beasts have taken flight over the mountain—!.." Audrey scoops up a spaceship with two small hands, _zoom!-_ ing and _swish!_ -ing through the air before screeching to a halt above the enemy. Where she gets her energy from before the sun is barely up is beyond him, and a quality of youth he truly envies even on his best day. 

He usually plays along - he _loves_ to play along - but he’s still running on empty, and the heavy atmosphere of the day that has nothing to do with the weather is weighing on his heart, hampering any good mood from rising fully to the surface. He smiles proudly at his wonder of a kid, but that's about all he can manage right now. 

Today always gets him down. Not that that's a bad thing, it's supposed to be this way and nothing can be done to change that. 

It only comes once a year and thankfully coincides with some much needed family time. Come tomorrow evening he’ll be surrounded by the extended Winchester-Campbell brood with a grin threatening to split his face in half and his energy stores magically replenished. Two weeks of quality time together as they wave goodbye to summer. 

Casting an evil glare at the traitor of a coffee pot he opens the fridge to grab some OJ instead. At chest-level the flimsy cardboard appointment slip for _Dr. Ephraim, PhD._ is still held in place by one of the custom-made magnets from his auto-shop. The colors clash; crisp white, grey and a tinge of steel blue, against a sickly shade of pink. Why anyone would want to color their business card in 'chewed bubblegum' Dean has no idea. But he's damn sure those little date boxes will go unchecked in the future. 

He's got nothin' against psycho-babble - _if_ it works. It's just not for him. He knew it wasn't gonna do him any good two minutes into that forty-five minute session. Hell, he’d had his doubts the second he walked into the waiting room, where the walls were painted that same sickly pink. 

Some folks feel the need to vent their problems to a stranger with a fancy degree and pay for the privilege to do so. For some, it even helps. Well, good for them. But all Dean really needs when his mind is backed up and pressing on his good mood is something to clear out the mess. Family puts a smile on his dial, no question, but nothing clears his head like getting elbows-deep in an engine bay. 

Most of the time, to clear out all that accumulated mental gunk, he just needs to work it out. Let his stress drain away as he cleans the oil tank of his beloved Impala - or whatever happens to be in the shop at the time - until his brain actually feels lighter in his skull. 

One day with hands busy and productive so his subconscious can get to work. Then, once all the muck is cleared out, he can actually see what's what: the worries or problems that've been layering on top of one another get sloughed away. Usually it's just small stuff but it adds up and compounds into this heavy mass that obscures the important stuff and the good stuff.

Barring any backache from a day spent inside a chassis or hunched over a workbench he's usually relieved at the end of it for having a better idea of what's wrong and what he needs to do to fix it. 

It’s his own kind of therapy. Better than forking over his hard-earned pay to some Ivy League shrink with a God complex and wall to wall plastic ficuses. 

Only reason Dean agreed to that session was because Sam wouldn't let it drop. _Venting to a stranger might be exactly what you need, Dean_. But, counterpoint: _I can vent to a stranger's car and get paid to do so, Sammy._

But Sam had already arranged it, and it just-so-happened to be covered by Dean's insurance, so he'd gone along if only to cease the pleading puppy-dog eyes. And the nagging. 

And what exactly did Dean learn?

Nothing he didn't already know. Nothing that could be changed. 

_Someone with significant talent rooted elsewhere,_ Doc Chiclet had said, _should cultivate that talent, and not let it wither and waste_. Dean had bit back the urge to argue; best not bait the hook, he thought. Just get through it once and be done with it. _Don't you think your family wants you to try? Don't you think they would support you? Don't you owe it to the world, Dean, to share your talent with them? Don't you owe it to yourself?_

First of all, of course his family would support him, he knows that. Second, the world wouldn't want what he's crankin' out these days - and he's fine with not being able to do better. He piqued early, it happens. He had a taste of another life and that was plenty. He's happy with the life he has now. 

It's just that sometimes his mood can't be righted with something as simple as a day in the shop. Those days just are. He figures he's just gotta do what works for him, whatever helps him through. So long as it's not unhealthy. 

And his coping mechanisms are _not_ unhealthy. Better fixing cars than drowning his sorrows. Better not writing at all than writing crap and feeling crap for it, for knowing he's got nothing better to give. He knows those days are done and he's accepted that. 

Four years of fixing cars is nothing to be ashamed of, either. It's good, honest work. There are things he misses about his former life but writing ain't one of 'em. If he had his time again he would've given up that life in a heartbeat to save Lisa, if he could've. 

Most days he's okay, emotionally speaking. Life goes on. Every year it gets a little easier, if not occasionally lonely in a way friends and family and even the munchkin can't quite turn around. But, again, that's just the way of some things. A widower's day-to-day. 

The anniversary of Lisa's death not only reminds him that he's alone in a way he always will be, it also summons his guilt about not really wanting to be. He manages, and that should be enough. He doesn't need more, so when the want for it creeps in on lonely days guilt follows like an ominous shadow. There'll always be that void only a companion can fill but he's not looking to fill it. Just because you want something doesn't mean you can get it, that it's out there waiting for you to find it. 

Life doesn't work like that. The universe is not poetic and it's not conspiring in his favour, hoping and waiting for him to take that leap into the unknown. 

Not a very cheery outlook on life. Not romantic in the least - which would probably surprise those who know he used to make his living as a writer and composer of _love songs_. 

He lost the will for it the same time he lost Lisa to that road accident. Maybe it was because the subject of love was his bread-n'-butter and losing his own just made it too damn painful to think about. It's not like he was giving up some high-flying career - he didn't even perform his own songs; his stage fright saw to that. 

The point is, he's not going to let anyone - PhD or otherwise - tell him he needs to get back in that saddle. He picks up his old Gibson now and then just to mess around, covers and whatnot, just for fun. He doesn't need anymore than that. 

Sam's just worried he's holding back, that he's afraid to get back into writing instead of just not wanting to. Maybe he could try writing about something besides love but he'd rather spend his days getting in some quality one-on-one time with the automotive beauties that end up in his capable hands - hands to be gladly smeared with grease, not ink, surrounded by a mess of tools, not balled-up wads of paper. 

And there's not a damn thing wrong with that. The way Dean sees it, it's not a problem.

But, okay, if he's being totally honest he is kinda relieved that those who care about him choose to focus on his foregone music career rather than his non-existent love life. He's more reserved these days but that's normal. Not just for a widower but for a guy his age who also happens to be a single parent. Dating is no longer a priority, and since it's not going to lead to anything long term he'd rather not even bother with the whole bar scene, or wherever he's 'spose to meet someone his age for a hookup (a coffee bar?). Not that it matters, because he's not twenty anymore. He doesn't crave it on a regular basis like he used to. 

It's not like he's chaste - he'll spend the night with someone if it happens to come to that, naturally, but he doesn't seek it out. Young Dean might've revelled in that lifestyle for a time but older, wiser, more mature Dean feels no shame in admitting to himself that he no longer needs that frequent release, no longer craves the talented touch of a beautiful stranger. 

Sex aside, when it comes to love, today is the one day each year he'sssure to be overwhelmed by what he (and Audrey) lost. Today always hurts the most, but that's okay because it's supposed to hurt. And as surreal as it seems it does hurt a little less each year, gets a little easier to bear, with time and family. 

However, since he's not okay with bringing Audrey down to his dreary level today, like every year for the past four years Sam and Eileen are on their way over to collect their favorite niece. They'll make the trip up to Forest County today and Dean will follow tomorrow. A day on the open road is another of his preferred coping mechanisms. It's good for resetting his mood. He doesn't get much free time for road trips these days, though. 

Pressing a kiss between Audrey's pigtails - careful not to get an eyeball full of glitter-bopper - he's surprised by the curl of bacon that suddenly appears between them. 

"We hafta eat the dragon bones in honour of the Witch.”

He takes hold of the bacon carcass and bites off its crispy head, like any good Captain worth his stripes would do. Audrey tilts back in her chair, showing off her milk-toothed smile blacked out by bacon bits, and Dean smiles back. "Roger that," he says, but something occurs to him. "Wait a minute.. what _witch_?" 

"The Red Witch." She points a glittery fingernail at the puddle of ketchup beside the half-devoured mountain of Eggtopia. "She melted in the battle. Dragonfire _._ ” She cups a small hand to whisper behind it, “It was an accident.” 

“But, wasn't the witch _bad_?”

Audrey shakes her head. “No―she was tricked by the Dark Side! But she was my best flyer.” Her words end sad, head bowed.

“Do you.. wanna say a few words?” Because, why not? 

She nods again, clearing her throat and straightening in her seat. “Rest in peace, oh flame-haired flyer. May your magic live on in us. May we do good with it, and not be tricked by the Dark Side.” And without further ado, she scrapes up a fork full of fluffy eggs and drags them through the puddle of witchy-ketchup. 

Dean munches on the rest of his dragon-carcass bacon, taking in the scene. 

“She woulda wanted it this way,” Audrey explains around her second mouthful, all sadness inexplicably gone from her voice.

He feels a smile form - a real _sunshiney_ smile - as he dips the charred tail of his deceased dragon into the sticky golden syrup pooling around one of the crash-landed spaceship pancakes. 

Today is always the hardest, but he'll get through it, come hard rain or no coffee. Audrey helps more than she knows by just being herself; her imagination, heart, and resilience. She may not remember her mother but she's got her spirit in spades. And Never mind writing or auto repair, because being a father is the most rewarding job Dean’s ever known. 

The sound of the doorbell is jarring. He's been meaning to fix the buzzer for months, ever since that possum gnawed through the old wires. It's got a weird-ass warble to it now, which Audrey refers to as: _the noise a sick robot makes before his courage falls out of his chest._

 _Doctor Who_ meets _Wizard of Oz_? Or something all her own? He's not sure, but he delights in the idea of that crossover probably more than she does. He's usually able to show it better than today, but he still feels that little ray of sunshine caught in his smile regardless. 

With another mouthful of crunchy dragon-bacon he makes for the door, swinging it wide without bothering to look through the peephole. He knows who it is. But he doesn’t expect to be bowled over by two great heaps of excitable - and _wet_ \- fur.

“ _Sammy—_!”

 _Of course_ his brother brought his giant-ass muts along. _Of course_ he's laughing like the asshole he is as Dean gets accosted by two soggy, oversized pooches. He just steps right on up to the door, cackling like a bitch, and manoeuvres past Dean to scoop Audrey up into his giganto traitor arms. 

A warm tongue sweeps over Dean's face. A cold nose nudges at his chin. He can't see anything through the wall of yellow fur and his ears are filled with the sounds of snuffling and slobbering.

_Giganto dogs for a giganto jerk._

Audrey giggles as Sam bids her _good morning_ with a quick space-flight around the living room, by the sounds of it - because Dean can't actually see what’s going on from where he's pinned to the rug. He’s over here being slobbered to death as muddy paws leave their prints all over his comfiest Steppenwolf tee. _Ah, the irony._

Shouting is useless. Help won’t come. He resigns himself to his fate, sprawled out on the rug as Sam’s dumb dogs lick his life away. It's a slow death, but struggle is futile, not to mention exhausting.. 

“― _Bones_.” 

_―Oh, thank god!_

Dean has never been more grateful to hear Eileen’s beautiful voice, syllables rounded and booming at one of two Golden Retrievers currently licking his joy away. 

Bones retrieves his tongue from Dean's face and bounds away, but the slightly bigger of the two furred monsters stays; it's stretched out on top of him, lapping at a possible witchy-ketchup stain on his shirt. 

“Hey, Eileen,” he smiles up at her. Or tries to smile. It’s probably more of a grimace, really. Whatever tiny store of energy he had is now sufficiently drained from being wrestled to the ground. 

Crouching beside him, Eileen pats his stubbled cheek. He should probably shave before tomorrow. “It’s how Bones shows affection,” she enunciates for him, and Dean feels his brow crease through a disgusting, drying film of Bones-slobber. 

“Uh-huh.” He gestures at the remaining problem still camped out on his diaphragm. “And this—?” 

She spares a glance at the other dog. “Lucky goes where the food is,” she shrugs, a cheeky smile creeping across her lips as she catches Dean’s eye again. “You have that in common.” 

A double-pat to Dean's shoulder and she's gone from his side and out of sight before he can comment. 

He manages to lift his head to peer down at the mass of damp yellow fur. Lucky's tongue is poking at the breakfast stain above his left pec, trying to lick a hole right through the already threadbare cotton. “Hey.” Big brown eyes peek up at him as he narrows his own in defiance. “I don’t like you.” Unbothered by Dean's words, Lucky carries right on licking. 

With a roll of his eyes that brings his head along for the ride, Dean ends up tilted back enough to view the scene behind him: Sam is now wearing Audrey’s glitter-boppers, chewing on a piece of dragon-bacon, still grinning down at Dean like the smug bastard he is. Bones is right there by his side, tongue lolling and tail wagging, adoring the scruffy head-pats from his master. _Partners in crime_. Audrey is hugging the mountainous bump of Eileen’s belly, and that's a far more agreeable sight. 

After a brief bitchface at Sam - still unable to fully match the epicness of Sammy’s own renowned bitchface collection - Dean tries to shift the unwanted weight from his torso.. and legs, and shoulders.. _Damn._ This dog is _not_ a dog - it’s the friggin’ spawn of a Dire Wolf and Winnie The Pooh! He doesn’t have the energy to escape. If he had coffee in him maybe, but―

―A sharp whistle cuts through the air and Lucky pushes off Dean’s chest, squashing his _everything_ as he goes. 

He’s free, and his body feels weightless, if not slightly bruised and thoroughly marred with the essence of Dog. He groans for effect, gradually getting to his feet and staggering off to the kitchen where Sam is chuckling - but also holding a large thermos of coffee. A truce, and Dean accepts. 

With the women of the house now occupied with both dogs busily covering Dean’s couch in fur and considerably less-muddy paw prints, he joins his brother, eyeing the thermos like it’s the Holy friggin’ Grail, because it is. 

“You all packed up?” 

“Yeah.”

They’d finished yesterday and having enough clothes and supplies packed for two weeks away was half the reason he was suffering through a caffeine-less morning: his backup supply of instant is currently three boxes deep in Baby's trunk. 

And it’s raining. 

And he’s tired. 

He gestures to the pile of bags at the mouth of the hall; Audrey’s pile, set to go with Sam's lot up to Gran's. 

The holidays are always a gamble since most of the extended family can't make it, but this tradition of theirs tends to pull everyone from their various corners of the world, even if their time together is overlapping. Most stay the whole two weeks, some can only spare a few days, but it’s the pinnacle of Campbell-Winchester & Co. family time. 

Dean eyes the thermos, brow furrowing as he waits not-so-patiently for his brother to get a damned move on. He’d reach for it himself if Sam didn’t have his hand wrapped around it; trying would no doubt trigger his Little Brother mode and see that coffee hoisted high above his head where regular-heighted humans like Dean can't reach. 

He could _try,_ though. He's seriously considering it. He would totally wrestle Sam to the floor - just like his mutant dogs did to him - if it means getting some caffeine in him sooner. 

“Oh, hey―get this.”

Sam's trying to distract him, but Dean is busy calculating his best ambush move. 

“Benny’s bringing a plus-one _._ ”

Dean's brain skids to a halt, backtracking from coffee-centric thoughts. “Wait, what? What d’you mean?”

“I mean, he met someone. He’s bringing them to Gran’s.” Sam makes for the cabinet over the sink, grabbing two mugs and setting them down by the thermos. Dean follows on his heels, ambush all but forgotten. 

“What d’you mean?” That's really all he can manage, right now. It’s not like Sam’s words are making any more sense than before and Dean’s brain requires coffee to filter through the subtext. 

“I _mean,_ ” Sam starts, thankfully pouring out some liquid lifeforce just as Dean crowds him at the counter, “that he _met_ someone. And it’s not just some shore-leave fling or summer liaison.”

“ _Liaison_? Really Sammy?” He snags the first mug just as Sam tops it off and resolutely ignores the impending bitchface. “We need to get you outta the office more. All that lawyer jargon is startin’ to spill into the regular world.” Inhaling deep, he takes a life-affirming first sip. It’s good. Sammy always brews the good stuff. He turns a mildly apologetic look on his brother, grateful for the coffee. “Look, I’m not surprised that he met someone.” _Well_.. “Okay, I _am_ —’cos frankly, that’s a helluva thing, but.. how the hell do you know about it and I don’t? Why didn't he tell me?” 

With a sigh, Sam takes up the second mug. “Don’t take it personally. Apparently he’s been emailing Gran. I only found out about it yesterday through her and she said he didn’t want to tell you over the phone or email, because, well.. that time of year, y’know?”

Yeah. Dean knows. Still. “Why would that matter? He’s had so-called girlfriends in the past and he’s never held back on the details - no matter _where_ we were or what we were _supposed_ to be doing.” Dean recalls a close-call with a cherry-red Mustang that almost flattened him at the shop because of one particularly steamy account. 

“Like I said,” Sam sips his coffee, eyes averting Dean and looking suspiciously.. _suspicious_ , right now. “This one's different.” He seems to recall something then, a weird smile flashing across his face. “Gran said he’s, 'absotively smitten'.”

“ _Smitten_?”

“Y'know,” Sam shrugs. Dean waits. “In love.”

Oh-kay. Yeah. That’s a new one. “No way.” But Sam nods, and somehow this doesn’t have the vibe of their patented practical jokes; third parties aren’t usually roped into their antics, at least not like this. “ _In love_.” Sam nods again. “Benny.” Another nod. “Wow.”

“Mhm.”

They sip their coffee in unison, sharing in a moment of quiet contemplation as the news sinks in with help from the steady flow of caffeine. 

“So..” Dean hedges, not sure he wants to know but feeling like he needsto, “He didn’t tell me, because.. he didn’t wanna rub his love-joy in my face around Lisa’s anniversary?”

“You can’t blame him.”

No, Dean can’t. And so much for his family not fussing over his love life. But is he really seen as being so damn fragile? That he would crack under the news of someone else’s happiness? Benny being in love is unexpected, sure, but it’s not going to _break_ Dean. “Well, I’m gonna call him. If he answers the damn phone, that is. I’m gonna tell him not to be such a damn mama-bear about it.”

“Really?” Sam levels a look at him. “You wanna hear all the lovey-dovey details?” 

No. Not really. 

Dean was in love, once. Hell, he'd made a living writing about it. But Sam does have an annoying point. Feeling it and writing it aren't the same as having to hear another person gush about it. Even Lisa understood the difference and let him slip away from those loved-up conversations with friends and strangers. Because he can take messy sex-talk, and he can watch the graphic scenes on _Dr. Sexy_ and _Animal Planet_ without losing his appetite. Enduring overly sappy tales of romance, however, literally makes his stomach turn. 

He could write love like nobody’s business. There was no need for him to also love hearing about anyone and everyone's love-sick pursuits, those delusional Hallmark Valentine dreams they genuinely thought were real-life possibilities. 

An elbow nudging him brings Dean back to the present. There's a distinct dip of brotherly concern creasing Sam's face, so Dean waves him off with half a smile. 

He's fine. 

He avoids dwelling on bad memories most of the time, refuses to let any sense of loneliness settle in. Because he's not lonely, not really. Not often. He's got Audrey and Sammy and all their extended family. They have each other, and it's enough. It’s family. It’s love. It’s good. And he's okay. 

“Alright, so maybe I’m no cheerleader for all that mushy crap.” Sam snorts, seemingly in agreement. Unless he’s being a jerk - a _gain,_ which would surprise exactly no one. “But it’s _Benny_ , right? He’s never had a high-mush-threshold, either.” 

“Well, except for high school.” 

Dean glares. Sam holds fast, smug and unrepentant. Dean nudges him sharp in the ribs. “ _That_ was different.” 

“Yeah, no kidding.”

“We were kids, Sam!”

Hands raised in surrender, Sam backs off. 

A scowl threatens to sour Dean’s somewhat improved mood and the enjoyment of his coffee, so he shakes it off. Or tries to. “Whatever.” 

He sips and thinks of young Benny and their _thing_ during the summer after senior year. Good times, bad times, unforgettable first times. But _mushy_? Sure, Benny had come on kinda strong with the whole 'boyfriend' thing, but that was just a phase, right? Stupid teenage hormones toying with emotions and getting outta hand. It didn’t last. 

Then again, neither did they. That was good, though. They were better as friends. 

And come to think of it, Benny _is_ sort of a big ol’ teddy bear. He'd definitely always been a sweetheart, had always been a gentleman with his various consorts no matter how short the affair - but _love_ just never seemed to factor into them. Benny was kind, considerate, generous - which may be misconstrued as 'romantic' by some, sure. No doubt more than a few cruise-goers set their sights on him for a little sun, surf and sailor shenanigans. 

But getting all love-sick and mooney-eyed over some chick (or fella)? That's not Benny. 

Unless.. it _is_? And he was just waiting for someone to come along that would channel that stuff for real, not just as a mess of over-eager adolescent feelings. 

_Benny. In love._

Yeah. It would suit him. 

With Dean’s scowl successfully reversed and his mug now dangerously low, he catches Sam’s attention and nods towards the thermos. Filled up again, he settles back against the counter. 

“Alright. So, what’ve you heard so far? What’s this Mystery Lover like?” 

“I dunno. Gran didn’t say much, just that Benny was looking forward to showing them off for everyone 'in person'.”

“ _Them_? What, that's it? No name, or anything?” 

“Nope. No specifics. Got nothing to go on.”

“Huh. Okay, well, Benny usually stays the whole two weeks, right? You think that means..”

“..That his Special Someone is staying too?” 

Would that be bad? No, 'course not. Just so long as Dean still gets to catch up with his friend - who he hasn't seen since his birthday, and that was pretty brief. 

“Maybe,” Sam goes on, “Unless they have other plans for the end of summer.”

“Hold up,” he better not mean what Dean thinks he means. “‘They’, as in, Mystery Lover? Or ‘they’ as in _them,_ together?”

Sam's eyes dart to his shoes as he clears nothing from his throat. 

“Wh—? No! C’mon, Sam―this is _our_ thing! It’s like the only time we get to see him _all year―_ he can’t just ditch us for some chick.”

“Again, it’s not just, ‘some chick’.”

Right. Could be a fella. 

“It seems serious this time.” 

“Okay, well, if it _is_ serious, then I’m happy for him. But that’s all the more reason for both of 'em to stick around, y’know? Get to know the family.” And let the family get to know this mysterious being that has somehow enchanted Benny Lafitte enough to inspire phrases like, ‘absotively smitten’. 

“You wanna vet them, don’t you?” 

“Hm—?” Dean rises from his coffee to find Sam wearing his, _I know you, Dean, don't try to deny it,_ face, and he can’t bring himself to lie. The guy pretty much knows all his tells, anyway. Good for lawyering, bad for Dean. 

“Yeah? So? No harm in making sure they’re not some axe-wielding maniac or money-grubbing douchebag.” Not real examples of Benny’s past trysts but also not totally out-of-the-question. Cruise ship staff travel all over. These fears are totally justifiable. “Remember, uhm..” _What was her name?.._ “Uh.. Lydia! Right? She was _freaky._ ”

“She was a dominatrix, Dean,” Sam lowers his voice, glancing back towards the living room. “And apparently, they still keep in touch.”

“I thought he was joking about that.” 

“Which part?”

“Th—.. why would h—?.. Are you—?” How does Sam not _get_ this? “Look, the point is, in his line of work Benny meets all sorts. The most common of which are horny tourists lookin’ to get their rocks off on their vacation, because whatever happens on the cruise, stays on the cruise. It's like the Adulterer's Law of International Waters.”

“You've been reading those ninety-nine-cent novels again, haven't you?”

“No.” _Yes._

Okay, so as much as Dean truly despises hearing people gab about their mushy love lives _,_ he actually _doesn't mind_ the occasional Harlequin indulgence. 

Fiction is entertaining and hot. Real-life wannabe Harlequin stories, on the other hand, not so much. And it's not that they’re cheesy, but that they're bullshit. Those stories from Lisa's friends, or whoever, all shared the same pungent whiff of lies and/or delusion. Want for a fantasy, y'know? _Leave it on the page, sweetheart._

“There’s no harm in getting a second opinion. We might see something he doesn’t.” 

“Right, I’m sure Benny would be _so grateful_ for you treating his Special Someone like a suspect in some crappy cop drama.”

Now there’s a thought. It’s early days, so Dean isn’t sure if Mystery Lover even warrants it, but if they do..

He tries to turn on the pleading puppy-eyes, but he’s never mastered the secret of it like Sam has. Guy's got a whole arsenal of faces Dean wish he had. 

Still, Dean tries.

“Wh—? NO.”

“C’mon, Sam! He might need it—they could be a friggin’ fruitcake!” 

“I’m not gonna _spy_ on Benny’s _Special Person_!”

Both of them take a moment to check themselves, check their volume: they glance in unison over at the couch. Audrey is now on her back on the rug beside Bones, mimicking his paw movements in the air. Or.. he might be mimicking hers? Lucky is leaning up against Eileen's side - and seriously, it's like a human in a dog suit - as she captures the floor antics on her phone. 

Dean smiles, a sense of calm washing through him. Sam is still fully engrossed in the view, a fond look spreading over his features before Dean pinches his thumb and forefinger together to flick one of his glitter boppers. 

“Hey―” he whacks Dean's hand away. 

“Okay, first of all, will you _stop_ with that, please?” Muttering ‘special person’ like the ridiculous moniker it is, Dean steals a sip of coffee before continuing. “And B, it’s not spying. It’s research.”

“Dean.”

“Just like you'd do for a case. You run a background check on the potential badguy.”

“I don’t run anything—” Sam lowers his voice again. “I’m not a _cop_ , Dean.”

“I think we both know you’ve got enough friends in law enforcement, Mr. Bigshot Lawyer, to pull in a little favour now and then.” Cue the Put-Upon Little Brother Bitchface, in all its epicness. Dean lowers his own voice. “It’s not like you haven’t done it before.”

Because he has. And not for Benny. Or for Dean. 

Sam did it for himself. 

Dean's smirks at the memory: Sam truly was 'absotively smitten' over Eileen when they first met. It was one part entertaining, two parts pathetic - until Dean insisted he actually _do_ something about it. And he couldn't be enjoying Sam's flusterment at the memory any more than he is right now. 

It'd actually been an FBI buddy of Sam's. Victor obliged some fact-finding about Miss Leahy, but it was Dean who had him all but convinced the evidence pointed towards her being an International Woman of Mystery, ie. an assassin, naturally. 

Sam didn't believe it, not at first. But when he applied the theory to Eileen's business dealings and all the travel she did, alongside her charm - which was, as Sam put it, _as disarming as it is intimidating_ \- doubt crept in.

And then, being the giant goofball that he is when he's nervous about a girl, Sam had tripped over his own shoes when Dean had met him for coffee near the courthouse. While trying to avoid looking in Eileen's general direction, Sam actually ended up bumping into her and spilling her double order of iced chai all over the floor. Dean caught the frown at her lost beverages morph into a smile directed solely at Sam - a bemused thing - as he bumbled his way through an apology, totally red-faced as he proceeded to stain his tan slacks with milk and ice trying to mop up the mess on and around her black heels with a handful of crappy paper napkins. 

All the while wearing two blobs of cream at nipple-height either side of his tie (which Dean may or may not have snapped a photo of for posterity - and future blackmail purposes). 

Dean knew from that moment alone that Eileen would be a good match for Sam. She seemed to find the whole thing endearing, wasn’t angry or upset. Instead of telling him off with both hands and voice, she joined Sam on the floor with a fresh handful of napkins, paying no mind to the spilled milk soaking through her pantihose. 

Sam deserved someone who smiled because of him, no matter how awkward or clumsy he could be. 

It was kind of adorable - in the non-stomach-churning sense of romantic encounters. It was real-life serendipity, and Dean had no trouble watching that scene play out. 

As for nefarious folk, there was that stalker in college, Becky, and Dean had totally called that one the first time he caught her making creeper eyes at Sam. Cue the full-body shudder. 

Turning to the sink, Sam empties out a good mouthful or two of coffee to spiral down the drain - _sacrilege!_ \- before rinsing out his mug. “Don’t you think you’re overreacting, just a little? You haven’t even met them. They might be, y’know, _not_ a criminal _―or_ a crazy person.”

It's possible. But it's still reassuring to know they have the means to wrangle some criminal or crazy if need be. Always be prepared. You don't need to be a boy scout to know that's just good advice. 

They migrate into other topics of discussion after that, leaving all Mystery Lover-related theories to carry on in the background of Dean's mind. Sam tops off Dean's mug one last time and they split the washing-up duties between them - Sam's drying method still leaving much to be desired. 

Dean can hear Audrey spinning a new tale of _Bigfoot_ and _a magic wishing well_ and _Bali_ in the same animated voice she used at breakfast, only at a quieter volume. A glance over his shoulder tells him she's signing some parts, Eileen helping her express certain words with previously unknown gestures. Dean should really practice more; his kid is always setting good examples. 

Nudging Sam to look, they both spare another moment to admire their little family. 

Bones is watching Audrey with some doggy mix of wariness and readiness, perking up with excitement at her bigger hand motions and wide smiles - and then his ears flopping down as she hushes her voice to a whisper and brings her hands low, as though imparting some dangerous turn in the tale which he, as a dog, can somehow fully understand and properly fear. 

Dean wonders where Lucky wandered off to―and is immediately accosted by the sight of a furry yellow head and slobbery pink tongue reaching up over the counter ledge to lick at the remains of Audrey's breakfast. 

There's a few ways he could go about this. 

Dean chooses the low road. 

“Y'know.. that could happen in your kitchen and you wouldn't even know about it,” he tells Sam, concealing his cringe under a mischievous guise while Lucky continues to lick the plate clean. He grabs a dish towel and one of Sam's ‘dried’ glasses. “You might see a clean plate and think, _Hey! It's fresh from the dishwasher_ , and then start piling it high with all that rabbit food you love so much.” Dean spies the quarter-strength bitchface directed his way before eyeing the dog again. “And then you might add some delicious, tangy dressing - which would obviously hide the flavour of..” 

In a remarkable turn of events, Sam shifts his disapproval to the dog, rousing on him - _Lucky, down! -_ before tugging the plate back from the edge of the counter. 

Now Dean is cackling like the genius that he is, and.. yeah. This is what he needs. More of this. More laughs, more family time. 

Audrey’s giggles dance through the air to join his own. How can he not giggle at the sight over his shoulder: Sam chasing after him with glitter-boppers bouncing wackily about his ridiculous L'Oréal mane; Dean's little ray of sunshine cheering him on; two excitable, oversized pooches hopping about with happy tails and barks of encouragement. 

“You’re doing great sweetie!” Eileen calls to her hubby, and thank God her phone is raised to capture every second for the digital records.

He tosses the dish towel in Sam’s face, buying just enough time to turn and lunge around his giant torso and tackle him to the sofa - where Bones immediately takes up residence, stretching out on top of Sam from neck to knee (a move well-learned from his dog-bro) and proceeds to lick the grump off Sam’s loser-face. Or maybe he's trying to paste a smile onto it? Who knows, but those dogs are now two points up in Dean’s book. Revenge can be a beautiful thing, especially when a new ally is gained (so maybe Dean doesn't totally hate them). 

Snagging the headband that had fallen askew in Sam’s hair, Dean crowns himself victorious and bows to his clapping audience, silver baubles bopping all the while. 

Crappy days come and go, with gloom and all the rest of it. But as long as Dean has his family he knows the sun will come out again. _Huh. Guess he's Annie friggin’ Warbucks._

And he's feeling it, right now: outside the rain pours down, but inside is bright and warm. 

He's good. 

Life is good. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡ [rebloggable link on tumblr](https://theheartchoice.tumblr.com/post/619692425441689600/hcts-destiel-fusion) ♡ 
> 
> I don't have a set schedule for posting, but chapter 2 is mostly done! I hope to update fortnightly on [Sunday/Monday AEST](https://savvytime.com/converter/aest-to-pst), but we'll see. Subscribe to this fic if you want to be notified when the next chapter is up. Thankyou for reading, and I hope you're enjoying the story so far.
> 
> _all comments are welcome_


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's meet-cute time. 💚 💙

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> please note: there's brief mention of Lisa's cause of death in this chapter (stroke and car crash). It's only a few sentences and nothing at all graphic. Remember this is a rom-com/dramedy intended to lift spirits and warm hearts so I promise the *light angst* tag won't get you down too much ♡. 
> 
> Also, while I did research real places in the US for this fic, I couldn't find exact matches for what I wanted. So if you recognise the road names please know that I've fudged their details a bit. 🗺️ 

Life is crap. 

How is it that the day _after_ the anniversary of his wife’s death manages to be worse than the day itself? If Dean believed in any kind of deity he’d say they were definitely screwing with him right now. 

So maybe he does believe, because surely the universe can’t have it in for him like this without some nefarious asswipe pulling the strings. Maybe this is just how Gods operate nowadays since people don't pay attention like they used to. Ancient spirits in the sky gotta pass the time somehow, and their mystic-meddling hoodoo is cursing him for kicks right this very second. 

It’s like this: the Rain God has joined forces with the God of Stolen Luck, or whatever, and they invited the God of Mischief along for the ride. Except there is no ride, because the Rain God and the Stolen-Luck God just made him swerve his Baby into a ditch off the i-39, and now the God of Mischief is probably laughing at his handiwork―’cos a truck just blew passed Dean on the shoulder sending a muddy tidal wave overhead drenching him to the friggin’ bone. 

Now he is wet, cold, and there's no cell service along this stretch of interstate, which is why he was trying to thumb a lift to Anywhere from the side of the road in the pouring rain. 

The truck driver obviously didn’t see his arm outstretched in the universal sign for: _please stop, I need help._ That, or he’s just an asshole. Or maybe the driver was really the God of Mischief in disguise - now doubled over in hysterics behind the wheel of his pilfered big rig because of that perfectly aimed prank. 

Gods aside, his prospects aren't great. With this unseasonal weather bucketing down it's no wonder the roads are empty. That truck was the only other vehicle he'd seen in over an hour, so he can't help himself - or his Baby - if he doesn't get a move on. 

With the Impala's trunk jammed shut he’s got no access to any dry clothes, _of freakin’ course._ The most he can do is strip his wet layers and don the yellow poncho he found in the glove compartment. But there's even less chance of him scoring a ride from a stranger if he looks like some naked dude who just escaped the looney bin to LARP it up as Paddington Bear. 

No. Clothes stay on. 

He can handle the discomfort, and hopefully he doesn’t succumb to the elements before another car comes by. Camping out in Baby ‘til the rains run out would be an option if the engine wasn't shot (no heater) and the rear window wasn't busted. At least it's not the middle of winter (it's not even technically Fall) so his chances of actually catching hypothermia are pretty low, which is a small win that he marks down against the growing tally of losses for the day. Baby being injured beyond a quick-fix repair really stacks those losses, though. 

The last glimpse of civilisation was a gas station by the north-east interchange about forty miles back, so that’s a no-go on foot. But he remembers seeing a sign for.. _something,_ fifteen miles ahead (according to the roadsign) about five minutes before the asshole Gods took their frustrations out on his existence. 

Google Maps can’t help him now, thanks to his phone being in his pocket through all this, but from his former years spent on the road there's still a stash of good ol’ fashioned paper maps under Baby's front seat - complete with notations for the Ramblin’ Man: best routes for different weather, greasy spoons worth the stop, cheap but clean motels, decent bars for a hook-up.. 

Times have certainly changed. He’s a father now, afterall, a single parent with a townhouse and a steady job. But some of those notes from his former life are still relevant. Like the red circles of seemingly nothing but farmland or empty lots that actually signify a pump n’ go - and, more importantly, a phone. There’s one that about matches the ‘something’ on the sign he glimpsed not too far back, which means he’s got about ten miles ahead of him. 

Ten miles on foot.

In the pouring rain. 

_Awesome_. 

Waterlogged phone safely stowed inside his equally waterlogged jacket, along with wallet and keys, he sets out in the forward direction of a working lifeline. 

The squelching in his boots is unpleasant. The muted landscape through the haze of late summer rain is foreboding. The downpour is downright demoralising.

He's probably the brightest damn thing around, the only visual break in the gloom. The banana plastic of his hooded dimestore poncho frames his view as he trudges along―and it fully lives up to its cheap-ass quality, by the way: it does absolutely fuck-all to keep the rain from attacking his face, while offering the barest flimsy protection for the rest of him; the one-size-fits-all barely reaches his knees and the whole thing is pretty much redundant.

And, okay. It’s not like it matters much since his clothes are already soaked, but a little morale boost couldn’t hurt, what with the marathon-length walk ahead of him in less-than-ideal walking weather. He blames the color; lousy happy yellow too good to be true. It’s a friggin’ con. Makes you think it’ll keep you sunshine-dry when the sky is trying to make you anything but. He'd probably be better off hoisting his jacket over his head to fend off the rain, but it wouldn't exactly be comfortable. If nothing else, the yellow does make him stand out. 

One thing he can rely on is his watch. It was a gift from Benny a few years back so Dean would have one less thing to bitch about whenever Benny managed to get him out on his boat: waterproof up to fifty metres, which means crappy-weatherproof, too. It’s almost four. He was making good time and should’ve reached Gran’s by six, but that schedule’s been tossed right out the window. He doesn't see getting back to civilisation by nightfall, let alone getting a tow on a seldom-used stretch of road in the middle of nowhere. If worse comes to worse he might have to hunker down at the red circle in whatever shelter awaits him. 

As he walks further and further away from the Impala the irony doesn't escape him; crashing his car after yesterday. It could've been a lot worse. It wasn't even raining the day Lisa died, no hazards or anything to blame, just one of those things. It happened out of nowhere, could've happened while she was at home with her daughter and Dean, with no warning signs at all. A stroke at thirty-two. They just didn't see it coming. 

So much for a nice scenic drive to reset his mood. 

He tries focusing his thoughts on the positive: dry clothes after a hot shower, a home-cooked meal, a big comfy bed. Anticipation for family time aside, all he wants to do is sleep for a day. And maybe get a massage. Not even an hour of this shit and his legs are already aching. Sam would blame his love for bacon and his affinity for following every other meal with pie. Also, the natural wonder of his bowlegs not being made for hiking, apparently. But Sam would be _wrong_. Dean's beautiful legs are not to blame here, and if he’s fit enough to keep up with the munchkin and lug around engine parts at work all day, then he’s fit enough. 

The pies aren't to blame, either. That asshole God of Mischi― _Loki!_ _That's him_ ―he's the one to blame, here. Loki, and whatever cosmic douchery him and his merry band of bored Gods conspired in to fell a tree branch, or kamikazee a bird, or send whatever the fuck it was tumbling across Dean's windshield that caused him to crash his beloved Baby into a goddamned ditch. 

His thighs and calves strain and the pads of his feet are well and truly pruned, but it’s his stomach growling in protest of being ignored so damn long that steals Dean’s attention. That stop at the Gas n’ Sip for taquitos and coffee did little to sate his usual lunchtime appetite, but he just didn't want to fill up on crap and not be able to chow down on the awesome Winchester-Campbell feast that awaited him at journey’s end. It was good to arrive a little hungry. In any case, there’s no food and no place to escape the elements right now. 

Just a couple more hours and he should reach that circle on the map, maybe a working phone, and then he ca―

―His thoughts are cut off by the most beautiful sound in the world: a bleeping horn, which is accompanied by the most beautiful sight in the world: a little blue car, one that rolls to a stop right beside him. 

_Dean Winchester is saved!_

And the driver must be the trusting sort, because before he can even bend down to signal something through the window the passenger door pops open. _Invitation accepted._ Except.. he’s soaking wet, and it'd be pretty damn rude of him just to assume an open door meant: _Come on in! Make yourself at home! Put your muddy boots all over my nice clean upholstery!_

Sammy knows exactly what Dean would do to _him_ if he tried that shit in his Baby. He tried it once, in fact. Although, technically it was his dogs who were the muddy ones, but dogs don’t know any better (and no one is more surprised to hear Dean admit that he _may_ be warming up to those giant furballs). 

Dean does the slightly less crappy thing and holds the door open just enough to let his voice carry, doing his best to block the rain from fighting past him into the car. “Hey, there. My car―”

“―Get in.”

 _Don’t gotta tell him twice_.

He slips inside and yanks the door shut with a satisfying clunk, the rain now physically separate from him for the first time in hours. It’s nice, and aside from the warm dry air, the first thing he notices is the scent of something both salty and sweet. He takes a moment - and a few unsaturated breaths - to settle into this lovely new environment. The second thing he notices is a set of striking blue eyes as he turns to thank his very own guardian angel. 

“..Uh, hi.”

 _Smooth._

The guy has concern - rather than wariness - written all over his face, which is pretty telling of his character, if you ask Dean. “Uhm―" he clears his throat, "Sorry. Like I was sayin’, uh..” He knows how to form full sentences, he swears he does, it’s just those _eyes_ \- they’re unearthly blue, a very pretty distraction. “My car. I, uh.. hit a ditch, few miles back―”

“―The black one?”

“You saw her?”

The guy squints at him as Dean perks up at the mere mention of his Baby, something of a smile quirking one corner of his chapped lips. You’d think _he_ was the one left out in the elements, especially with that dark stubble and wild hair and― 

― _What the fuck, Winchester?_ _Stop checking out the_ _kind stranger who went against every logical fear of picking up a possible murderous hitch-hiker on an abandoned highway in a rainstorm in favor of rescuing you._

_Control yourself, dammit!_

Dean’s conscience makes a good point. 

“Your car is a.. _she_?”

It’s not a teasing smile, but it is a beautiful one; small and curious. The guy seems bewildered by Dean referring to his car in such a way. “Yeah, she’s.. well, she’s the number one lady in my life. Aside from my little girl, I mean.” 

_Wait, was that creepy? Way to go on toning down the just-escaped-from-the-looney-bin vibes, man._

“I mean, uh―she’s not just a car, y’know? She was kinda my first home, actually.”

_Oh, boy. That feels like an overshare._

“Oh. I see.”

“I was on the road a lot, uh.. motels, new cities.”

The guy hums. “It was a comfort for you," he says, and yeah, actually. "A familiar place in unfamiliar territory.”

Okay, now this guy, this stranger Dean just met, gets it. And he _gets it_ in a very comforting voice, like Baby’s tyres rolling into the driveway of home. He seems almost introspective, too, like he's been in a similar situation. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s―” a quick glance around the small confines of the hatchback - grey felt all over, no personal touches, clean but bare - tells Dean this car probably isn't the reason why he gets it. 

But they’re still parked on the side of the road in the pouring rain and both have places they’d much rather be - not to mention Dean’s ass is currently soaking through the fabric of the guy’s passenger seat - so as much as the idea of getting to know his saviour a little better seems more and more pleasing by the second, Dean forces himself to focus up. 

“Sorry about, uhh..” he gestures at himself and the seat, trying in vain to lift his weight up to prevent further soaking, his poncho crinkling and―yep; the thing's already torn. The guy waves it off. 

“It’s quite alright. It’s a rental.”

Thankfully, before Dean can overstep and ask where the guy is traveling to and why he needs a rental car and what _exactly_ is that heavenly smell, the guy reaches between their seats into the back. There’s a pile of duffle bags that draws Dean’s eye this time, and they help answer one question: he’s either traveling to or from some place; escaping or returning or maybe even visiting. Dean mulls over the endless possibilities in the few seconds it takes for the guy to lean back into the front and offer up a towel.

“Thanks, man.”

The guy nods, leaving Dean to wipe the rain off his face and pat-dry his hair as much as possible. And Dean can’t help but smile, because that delicious mystery scent seems to be woven into the very fibres: _salty and sweet; the best of both worlds.. and.. something else?.._ He resists the temptation to push his face into the towel and inhale deeply―but only just. 

“I’m Dean, by the way,” he remembers at last, because _manners_. Towel in his lap, smile lingering, he offers a hand in greeting. 

“Castiel.”

“Cool name," and soft hands, with a firm grip.

“Uhm, thankyou. I was named after an angel.”

“No kiddin’.” Cue an adorable head tilt, and Dean just can't help himself. “I was just thinkin’ how you're like my very own guardian angel.” There's wonder in Castiel's eyes as he regards him, and maybe he said too much. Still, Dean wouldn't mind gazing into those eyes a little while longer, try to think up a name for their very unique shade of blue - but he _just met_ the guy. _He_ could be the murderous psychopath, for all Dean knows - those duffel bags could be full of neatly severed body parts. 

“There are many variations in mythos, you know," says Castiel. "My favorite happens to be a dragon-riding jinn, such as depicted in Francis Barrett's _The Magus_ , who also presides over Saturn―the planet of agriculture, liberation, and time.” 

Dean blinks. Well, what the hell is he supposed to say to that? “Awesome.”

Because _it is_. And even more awesome is how that one word coaxes a slightly bigger smile from Mr. Angel Mythos, plus some lovely eye-crinkles, plus―is that a faint tinge of red on his cheeks or has Dean reached the delusional of hunger? There’s no way this guy is an axe-wielding psychopath. He’s too cute. 

“My little girl―Audrey―she _loves_ dragons. She’s gonna be thrilled when I tell her I met a real one.”

Castiel chuckles, low and lovely and―okay, his brain is definitely running off on these tangents because of lack of food, right? 

_Right._

Ignoring the sarcasm of his own conscience Dean clears his throat, tearing his eyes away to find the rain still bucketing down outside. He was so busy fine-tuning himself to dragon-dude’s presence that it slipped his mind how he came to be in his car in the first place: the God of Rain. Also Loki. Deities are mostly to blame here, so maybe he shouldn't be letting his hunger and fatigue lower his guard around a guy with a mythological name. It might be a warning sign. 

“Technically, the dragon is Cassiel’s steed. Cassiel is actually a jinn.”

“A gin, huh?” Dean says to the rain, eyes focused on the haze out the window. 

“Simply put, a broad description for supernatural creatures. It means, _them who are hidden in plain sight_.”

 _Loki_.

But maybe meeting Castiel isn't the bad omen Dean could perceive it to be. It's possible not all mythical folk are mischievous bastards, if they do exist. Castiel certainly doesn’t seem to be, and his namesake is pretty damn cool. It’s not really the type of conversation he expected to have with a stranger who picked him up off the side of the road, but all things considered it ain’t half bad. 

He lets his gaze resettle on Castiel, Dragon Rider _―_ which turns out to be a colossal mistake, because as soon as he makes eye-contact his mouth runs away from him again. “Well, I’m headed wherever you are, Angel.” 

_Fuck_.

That's a cheesy pick-up line for a dimly lit bar, not the passenger seat of a good samaritan's car. Honing in on the angel-thing when the guy said a bunch of other cool stuff reeks of desperation―and Dean is anything but. He may have a tendency to flirt with people now and then, but that's just part of his natural charm. He never intends for it to go further than harmless banter, and besides: it's been a while since he's gotten back on that particular horse, and why his subconscious thinks now is a good time he's got no idea. 

He's totally deserving of the flush that creeps over him like he’s creepin’ over poor Castiel right now―he’s giving creeper-eyes Becky a run for her money, and his mostly empty stomach twists in on itself, resulting in a grumble that may or may not be drowned out by the rain. 

Clearing his throat, eyes darting away again, Dean rushes to add, “―I just need to reach a working phone. No signal ‘round here.” 

It’s then that he remembers his out-of-action smartphone and takes the mercy of an escape to reach under his poncho and fish it out, along with his sodden wallet and keys. The towel can wipe away the droplets on the casing but this thing needs to be dunked in a bag of rice and left overnight. 

Out the corner of his eye he notices Castiel tapping away at his own phone, a furrow creasing his brow. “You’re right. I have no signal. Not even data.” 

These technological dead zones shouldn’t even exist in this day and age. It’s a damn safety hazard. But, here they are. 

At least Castiel doesn’t seem bothered by Dean’s appalling flirtation― _was it a flirtation?_ ―although there might’ve been a certain ‘look’ he decidedly missed when he tore his eyes away. But he hasn’t been kicked to the curb yet _,_ so that's another small win. The losses, on the other hand (like his dignity, for instance) are still stacking up thanks to his brain-to-mouth filter malfunction. Maybe it was fritzed by the rain as well? He's never really had trouble keeping his cool in the presence of beautiful people, so maybe the weather is dampening his composure? 

Unless.. _shit._ Has he taken after his little brother, somehow? Or is this just what happens when a single guy reaches middle-age―interacting with hot strangers means embarrassing himself and he's just gotta learn to live with that? 

Shoving those disturbing thoughts aside and redirecting his mind away from the distraction that is Castiel _,_ he forces himself to focus on the problem at hand. Reaching back under his shitty plastic poncho and into his jacket, he pulls out the soggy map he'd brought with him. “Here,” he points to the red circle along i-39, “I think it’s a pump n’ go. They usually have an emergency phone.” 

Keyword being _usually_. Who knows if this little outpost of civilisation is still standing. He hadn’t noticed it before, not that he takes this road for the pit-stops. It's a longer drive, winding east before curving up to meet the i-55. The new interchange shaves a good couple hours off the trip, depending on traffic, but that's more for when he's not traveling solo. The scenic route is better for this time of year because it helps improve his mood. 

Not today, obviously. Today the scene outside sucks, and not only is it doing nothing to improve his mood it's sending it in the opposite direction. 

The scene inside, on the other hand, is a whole lot nicer. He won't lie; his mood has already climbed a few notches up from miserable. Sharing close quarters with a handsome stranger, getting closer as they both lean in to regard the map, it's a far cry from misery. 

_Creep-er._

“I don’t see anything." 

“No, but it’s there. I’ve got maps like this for every state. Things I noticed that weren’t printed.” 

“You must be rather well traveled.”

Turning into that compliment turns out to be another dumb idea―'cos those eyes thisclose are downright bewitching. Dean’s half-convinced the guy really is a supernatural being. 

And now he’s staring, transfixed. 

He yanks himself back in his seat just like he did the door against the rain, removing himself from Castiel’s personal space and settling back into his own bubble of protection. 

Because his conscience is right: what the hell is _wrong_ with him? He’s acting like one of those starry-eyed chicks in those damn Harlequin novels, and like he’s said before: that shit’s pure fantasy. It doesn’t happen in real-life, only desperate lonely people _think_ it does. Whatever situation they find themselves in to make them think that, it’s gotta be one-sided. 

_This_ is definitelyone-sided. 

Whatever he hopes to be seeing in Castiel’s shy smiles and reddened cheeks is just a reaction to Dean’s bizarre behaviour. The guy’s got a stranger in his car on a ghost highway in the rain―he deserves a little breathing room, for fuck sake. 

Castiel was just trying to break the ice with all that dragon-talk, trying to convince Dean that he’s not gonna stab him with a pen that's really a tranq dart before taking a detour to some abandoned barn where he'd chop him up into conveniently duffel-sized pieces. 

"I used to be," Dean tells him, clearing his throat again, "not so much anymore." And that's not a bad thing. He'd reached that stage of settling down before he'd even had a reason to do so. Even if he hadn't met Lisa, hadn't met anyone, he was starting to feel it in his bones; a longing to find a place to call his own, make a house into a home. But it's the people around you that make that kind of thing possible. 

He'd had his doubts about finding someone who'd want him that way, want more than a fling with a guy like him. For a long time he was just somebody's one night stand; strangers who noticed his pretty face and decent voice - and who didn't balk at a backseat big enough for two. Living outta your car didn't exactly scream 'stable future', so he started to accept maybe that other life just wasn't his to have. He could still dream about it, though. Write about it. Sing about it.

But playing dive bars only gets you so much, and since Dean couldn't bare to play in front of bigger crowds he was only ever gonna go so far, talent or no talent. If that A&R rep hadn't wandered into _Swayze's_ all those years ago he'd probably still be trying to make a home of a never-ending highway, singing for tips and bussing tables where he could. 

Lisa wanted more with him. A life, not a night. Not everyone's so lucky to see their dreams come true. 

Dean hadn't noticed they'd pulled back onto the road until blurry shapes were coasting by his window, Castiel now focused on driving carefully through the rain as a companionable quiet settled around them. "Thanks, Cas," he mutters, because it seems like the thing to say. 

The nickname he's got no excuse for, it just kinda slipped off his tongue. Cas doesn't seem to mind though, a gentle smile gracing his features as he spares a glance over at Dean, nodding once. 

Dean wonders about him: what kind of life he's had, what kind of person he is. As far as first impressions go this Castiel seems like a good guy. Sure, everyone has their secrets - and plenty of people turn out to be nothing like you thought they'd be - but sometimes, with some people, you get a feeling; a sense of who they are even though you don't know them yet. Human instinct, maybe. Some folks would argue you knew each other in a previous life, while others chalk it up to compatible pheromones.

Dean's no new-age spirit, and he's no scientist, but if he had to put a theory to it he'd say it comes from experience. A lifetime of getting acquainted with the best and worst in people - beit up close or from a distance - you develop an inkling about these things. It's not fool-proof, not a hundred percent certain because, well.. _nothing_ in life is, but he thinks he might have a few friendships to thank for it nonetheless. 

First impressions don't always go well, but you don't always get the _feeling_ right away, either. Dean didn't notice it with Lisa until their second date. 

Maybe there's hope for him yet. Maybe making an ass out of himself in front of a stranger, a potential friend, isn't so bad. They could meet again, try again. Then again, chances are he won't see Cas a second time. Their paths converging for a little while is probably all Dean'll get, which means there's no reason to let his embarrassing behaviour get the better of whatever positivity he can wring from this crappy day.

They'll part ways soon enough, and that'll be the end of it. 

So it goes. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> ♡ [rebloggable chapter link on tumblr](https://theheartchoice.tumblr.com/post/620680598753853440/hcts-chapter-2) ♡ 
> 
> Did you enjoy the meet-cute? I hope you're liking the story so far. I'm not following the movie exactly because I want to make it my own and write something that fits the dynamics of these boys a little better. **Chapter 3 mini teaser:** the story picks up right where it left off―with Cas POV!  _all comments are welcome_


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